He Today Who Sheds His Blood With Me
by binnibeans
Summary: Freshly dropped into Normandy, paratrooper Alfred F. Jones fights alongside a lost British medic during the Battle of Carentan.


**A/N:** I wrote this based on a picture by hakuku at LJ! The link and notes are at the bottom of the fic. :]

* * *

"You okay?"

Alfred's breath came out gasping as he dodged quickly next to the hiding medic. Both his and Kirkland's lungs fought for air, huddled behind the recently-shelled wall (Had it been a store before? A house—a home?) Dust flew about them, but it was of little concern amongst the yelling, shooting, and bombing.

Kirkland had his legs pulled up, sliding his white helmet off with a heavy sigh. The lost British soldier allowed himself a small, brief moment of self-indulging relaxation among the chaos as he closed his eyes, comforted by the darkness of his eyelids; a kind of visual protection from the blood, death, and fire just outside the breaking wall. The blackness was a teasing comfort—Alfred had tried that before. The younger of the two was forced to break his eyes from the tired and silent medic as a bullet ricocheted not far away.

It was fast, but to Alfred it seemed like an entire minute and a half to register what had happened. The bullet—either from friendly or enemy fire—found itself embedded in Alfred's right leg, in his shin.

"Shit!" he cursed; the sting sent a shock through his entire leg and he couldn't tell if he'd gone cold or hot.

He gripped immediately at the wound, hissing out a string of rather colorful words. Before he could do much, however, he found a hand over his mouth for a brief moment before his eyes found scissors cutting across his pant leg.

"Damned Yanks and your gear—do you think have enough on your leg alone?" Kirkland chastised, ripping the bags and packs off.

Before Alfred could bother to think about having a comeback, the fabric was torn off his leg to reveal a bloodied mess. Alfred was definitely of the belief that seeing the injury made the pain five times worse and if it wasn't for the fact that he was scared out of his mind (not that he would ever admit it, of course) he'd probably have started wishing that he'd brought his mom along.

"Bullet's not deep," Kirkland assessed and the he did something that caused Alfred to nearly bite his tongue off.

He dug it out with his fingers.

"Shit! What the hell? Did they teach you medieval tactics in Britain?" Alfred yelled as Kirkland poured a small bit of morphine over the wound.

"Belt up and stop being such a child!" he was ordered. Kirkland was already wrapping the spot in gauze. "It's only a minor wound and it wasn't deep! When you have shrapnel decorating you up and down your back, _then_ we'll talk about medieval tactics!"

Alfred met the glare, seeing the green eyes that stood out so much among the grey. "Yeah, yeah…."

Kirkland finished dressing the wound, leaning back once more, likely sending a silent prayer that the battle would end; that he wouldn't hear the desperate call for a medic. Alfred peered around, rifle at the ready as the fight behind them escalated.

A whistle sounded about and both young men's eyes widened horrifically.

Jamming his helmet back on his head, Kirkland immediately shoved Alfred down, throwing himself on top of the American as the mortar hit just seven feet away. One of the last, clearest sounds Alfred heard was Kirkland attempting to choke a sound to death in his throat. His ears rang with a high pitched signal and while he felt all right—minus the nicked shin, of course—something was off. He felt Kirkland scramble up and before he was out of sight, shrouded in the kicked-up dust and rubble, Alfred saw what made him choke in pain. Shrapnel had dug its way in near Kirkland's right shoulder blade, causing the entire side of his uniform to bloom red.

Yet he acted like nothing was wrong.

Alfred stood and ran back into the battle, just a little more than off-kilter with his sudden deafness and throbbing leg.

* * *

Kirkland ripped off the medic band on his arm. It landed in a small puddle of blood and water as he kicked his steel helmet—also adorned with the medic symbol—out; it hit what remained of a brick wall with a pathetic clank before rocking to a stop. The medical bag over his shoulder was dropped and forgotten. His teeth were clenched, his brow furrowed as his boots stomped their way to-and-fro, back and forth, the bloodied water on the cobbled streets splashing up as he did so.

No more than five meters away stood the American soldier, watching on with confused, and slightly saddened, eyes. Maybe it was the sudden silence in the destroyed village when just moments previous it was been filled with deafening explosions from guns, grenades, and mortar, yelling and screaming from fellow soldiers, and the sickening crunching of bone and squelching of blood. More than the gunpowder now, the smell of rain was beginning to set in with decay. Alfred had found himself still slightly deafened by a particular explosion; his ears felt as though they were filled with compacted wads of cotton, but at least now he could hear a little bit more.

Despite having pushed the Germans out, they'd had a number of casualties. Alfred and Kirkland themselves had not escaped unscathed but Alfred had a feeling that the shrapnel embedded in Kirkland's back was not what had him worked up—the Englishman had likely forgotten all about it. Partly because of the sudden absence of the noise and action, but also because…. Because several of the casualties on their side had been deaths and two, from what Alfred saw when he could, had been under Kirkland's hands and the proof was in the blood that decorated him from head-to-toe, it not being his own.

"Fuck."

Alfred's gaze refocused and he found his hearing slowly beginning to return. That hadn't been the first word he'd expected to hear. "Huh?"

"Fuck," Kirkland repeated. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He kicked at the wall. Alfred winced, taking a few tentative and limping steps forward. Kirkland continued going on, words that Alfred could barely understand streaming out as easily as water in a creek but with the force of a great river. "Stay away from me, you bastard!" he hissed. Alfred stopped immediately, hands held up. He blinked down as well as he could. "This is all your fucking fault!"

…That, however, he couldn't take just sitting down. "Hey, now, that's kinda harsh, innit? Pretty sure I didn't start the war!"

Kirkland just shot him a perplexed look and it was then that Alfred finally got a look at him since Kirkland had run back into the fray. The straw-colored hair was matted with dirt, blood, sweat, and oil and his skin and uniform was a collection of rips, tears, and scrapes to be sure, but it wasn't all of that to make Kirkland appear so weighted. His eyes, though still a breathtaking shade of green, were dulled with fatigue and despair but sharpened with anger.

"No, but it took you long enough to just hop on in!" he answered sarcastically, and more to himself. "I met you not even a week ago!" he continued on. "If not for you I would likely be back with my team—hell, just my countrymen! But no! Not good enough for you bloody Yanks! You have your own fucking medics and yet you drag me along and make—"

The statement remained unfinished as he slumped against the wall, sliding down it and likely making the shrapnel dig itself deeper.

"H-hey, now," Alfred began. He picked up the band from the puddle, ignoring the pink hue now wetting his fingers, and then wobbled over to the helmet and bag. He reached Kirkland but didn't dare sit down; his leg wouldn't allow him to get up again. (Though he was sure that any lecture about it that Kirkland gave could get him up and moving. "It's just a flesh wound!" he'd likely say.) "You can't help it. You're just a medic, not God."

The intensity had returned to Kirkland's eyes and he looked up with a glare. "I don't pretend to be God," he spat out. "But I _have_ been entrusted with men's lives—if I don't complete my task then I have not fulfilled my duty to myself, my comrades, my country, _or_ God. I—Christ." His head fell once more. "How old were you when you enlisted, Jones?" he asked, muffled.

Alfred gulped. "I'll be twenty next month."

He heard Kirkland laugh darkly. "When did you enlist?"

He took a breath—it wouldn't matter anyway. "Pearl Harbor."

"Seventeen, eh? Patriotic type, are you?"

A grin graced Alfred's face, and his heart swelled with pride. "Sure am!"

Kirkland peered out, away from them. Alfred amused the idea of taking a seat, but … they had to get going pretty soon. It seemed, however, that Kirkland had a vastly different idea.

"It's not that I'm not patriotic to my nation; I love England," he began. "I suppose I saw it as you Yanks saw it: Not our issue. Even after Poland's invasion. At least it wasn't my issue. My older brothers would have jumped immediately to get out if not for mandatory conscription. I likely wouldn't have enlisted until the rationing became a strain. …Say, have you any cigarettes?"

The sudden topic change caught Alfred off guard and he blinked, confused, for a moment until the words processed. "Uh, yeah," he said, rifling around his pockets. He pulled out the near-empty pack. "The best." He tossed them over with a hopeful grin.

Kirkland nodded his thanks as Alfred handed him some matches. After some pulls and a very contented exhalation of smoke, Kirkland continued. "Even so; up until the Blitz I hadn't much of a reason be here." He wore something akin to a smile, but … Alfred was afraid of dissecting it. It appeared dark and ominous as his lips curled around the cigarette.

His mouth went dry as he opened it. "You got a reason, now?" He knew immediately it was the wrong thing to ask.

Kirkland chuckled a bit. "I lived in London."

Alfred felt severe guilt overtake him. A feeble, "Oh," was all he could manage before Kirkland continued.

"I've no family any longer. Mum and Dad are gone and Peter." The cigarette's red tip found itself between the clenched fingers of his right hand, as the fingers of his left gripped hard at the fabric on his arm.

"What about your older brothers?" Alfred's voice was scratchy.

"Bunch of buggerers. No, I'm not concerned with where I'm going—not enough to bother with them, anyway." His voice was venomous. "Peter was annoying to be sure but he was still my little brother and now—"

He stopped again, dragging desperately on the cigarette with his eyes focused unblinkingly at Alfred's wrappings on his leg. Alfred bit his tongue, understanding now—partly—what Kirkland's problem was. He didn't say anything for a long while and neither did Kirkland. He simply continued smoking the cigarette, enjoying each inhalation of nicotine while he could.

"My name is Arthur."

Alfred's eyes refocused on the British medico, who now was stubbing out his finished cigarette and handing the pack back to Alfred. He nodded to the silent thanks in Arthur's eyes. "Alfred," he replied.

_We would not seek a battle as we are, yet as we are, we say we will not shun it._

* * *

END

* * *

So as I said earlier; I wrote this based on hakuku's picture (1) because I love it and she said it was based on _Band of Brothers_ which I absolutely _love and adore like none other_ and I've been dying to write Alfred and Arthur during battle, which leads me to this:

-Though not stated, I wrote this to take place during the Battle of Carentan and there are a couple nods to BoB, too. (IE ricocheting bullet, the temporary deafness) You can watch the BoB scene of Carentan (2), which I used for this, but **be warned:** Gory, bloody—it's war. (NOTICE, THOUGH, THE SPADES ON THE 101st HELMETS (3). Yes, Alfred is wearing this helmet.)

-The Battle of Carentan consisted of only US and German belligerents. Because of this, in this fic, Alfred is part of the 101st Airborne and I'm going with the idea that Arthur was separated from his company—SOMEHOW—during the drop into Normandy and ended up with the 101st. (Arthur briefly and only vaguely hints at why he's there despite being a medic for the British.)

-The Battle of Carentan lasted from June 10 to June 14, 1944. There's no particular day of battle I used for this.

-British medic helmets are a bit different than American ones. (I'd link you to an American one but there were a lot of different models.)

-The cigarettes Alfred carries are Lucky Strikes, which were a popular brand in the US at the time.

-Back to the BoB fagging: The title is from the quote, _"For he today who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother,"_ which is part of a larger quote used in (and as title) for _Band of Brothers_. The quote is from Shakespeare's play, _Henry V_.

-Likewise, the quote at the end is also from _Henry V_.

-Yes, you read correctly. I used a _Monty Python_ reference. WELL IT MADE SENSE OKAY?

Links: Just make sure to get rid of the spaces and replace the (DOT) with ... well, a dot.

(1) http :/ /i42 (DOT) photobucket (DOT) com /albums/e309/Hakukuku/art/band (DOT) png

(2) http :/ /www (DOT) youtube (DOT) com/watch?v=uuyXT-FCq1k

(3) http :/ /www (DOT) oldgloryprints (DOT) com/Helmet_-_101st (DOT) jpg


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